Every other newspaper in town caught the contagion; became by insensible degrees more sensational and pornographic.  The Patriot had started a rag-time pace (based on the same fundamental instinct which the rhythm of rag-time expresses, if the psychologists are correct) and the rest must, perforce, adopt it.  Such as lagged in this Harlot’s Progress suffered a loss of circulation, journalism’s most condign penalty.  For there are certain appetites which, once stimulated, must be appeased.  Otherwise business wanes!

Out of conscious nothing, as represented by the now moribund News, there was provoked one evening a large, round, middle-aged, smiling, bespectacled apparition who named himself as Rudy Sheffer and invited himself to a job.  Marrineal had sent him to Severance, and Severance, ever tactful, had brought him to Banneker.  Russell Edmonds being called in, the three sat in judgment upon the Big Idea which Mr. Sheffer had brought with him and which was: 

“Give ’em a laugh.”

“The potentialities of humor as a circulation agency,” opined Severance in his smoothest academic voice, “have never been properly exploited.”

“A laugh on every page where there ain’t a thrill,” pursued Sheffer confidently.

“You find some of our pages dull?” asked Banneker, always interested in any new view.

“Well, your market page ain’t no scream.  You gotta admit it.”

“People don’t usually want to laugh when they’re studying the stock market,” growled Edmonds.

“Surprise ’em, then.  Give ’em a jab in the ribs and see how they like it.  Pictures.  Real comics.  Anywhere in the paper that there’s room for ’em.”

“There’s always a cartoon on the editorial page,” pointed out Banneker.

“Cartoon?  What does that get you?  A cartoon’s an editorial, ain’t it?”

Russell Edmonds shot a side glance at Banneker, meaning:  “This is no fool.  Watch him.”

“Makes ’em think, don’t it?” pursued the visitor.  “If it tickles ’em, that’s on the side.  It gets after their minds, makes ’em work for what they get.  That’s an effort.  See?”

“All right.  What’s your aim?”

“Not their brains.  I leave that to Mr. Banneker’s editorials.  I’m after the laugh that starts down here.”  He laid hand upon his rotund waistcoat.  “The belly-laugh.”

“The anatomy of anti-melancholy,” murmured Severance.  “Valuable.”

“You’re right, it’s valuable,” declared its proponent.  “It’s money; that’s what it is.  Watch ’em at the movies.  When their bellies begin to shake, the picture’s got ’em.”

“How would you produce this desirable effect?” asked Severance.

“No trouble to show goods.  I’m dealing with gents, I know.  This is all under your shirt for the present, if you don’t take up the scheme.”

From a portfolio which he had set in a corner he produced a sheaf of drawings.  They depicted the adventures, mischievous, predatory, or criminal, of a pair of young hopefuls whose physiognomies and postures were genuinely ludicrous.